Hey Brother,
Today is your birthday. You are 26 years old and I remember the day you were born.
There was a brief phase where I masqueraded as a ballerina. I'm not sure who's idea it was: Dad's or my Mom's or your Mom's. Either way, it was ill-advised and I was seriously no good at it. On the night of my big recital, as our sister put on my sparkly make-up and worked her magic with the curling iron, Dad was rushing your mom to the hospital. Sometime in the night you were born, happily drowning out whatever clumsy mishap may have occurred at my ballet recital. For months I kept a crinkly hospital photo of you with me, showing it off to my friends and teachers. Proof I had been gifted a brother.
Read moreI was in my preteens maybe, post middle school crushes but pre high school angst. My best friend-psuedo-big-sister-babysitter-slash-confidante was back from a whirl around England and we settled her homesickness with a film. A Room With a View. Period piece and...
Read moreOak Park is a dream. When I close my eyes and try to remember when, I realize the colour of the floorboards is gone. I can't find the smell of the bookshop. We moved away from those tree-lined streets 12 years ago and I find myself still wishing we could go back, sit in the park across from Hemingway's old place, my head in your lap and the church bells ringing.
We would ride our bikes on those streets, looking at these old victorian houses, the craftsman porches. You had your favourites and I had mine, and we envisioned this prairie life in the city, where we'd walk our children to school. Sit on the porch swing. Knock down some walls and plant a lilac bush. Open our own bookshop.
There were all these Frank Lloyd Wright places and we could never decide on one. You know, just in case. You liked the one with steep, sharp angles. I like the one with the rounded front door. These were our Sundays, spent in the shadows of someone's masterpiece. Oh, we had so much time.
Read moreI have an amazing mother, who raised me and my sister on her own, working hard and relying on the family of church and neighbours when her own lived wide across the state. It's a testimony to faith, really, that when she was alone in a big city with two little girls, men of God came alongside her. Women of God looked after her. And we were not alone, raised by our mother, and the Church.
The Church, she is not perfect. There was a time or two when she was found terribly wanting and absent, when we were in crisis and the hand of help was withdrawn. My mother was not a widow, you see, and we were not orphans. Not in the technical sense, anyway. And though she grieved and cried, wounded, my mother held on to faith. To God. She forgave, and waited for the Church to come around.
Read moreSo it turns out, I don't mind it all that much. Every night his chubby hand reaches for mine and he asks, "You lay down by me?" We've both settled into it nicely, now. And even though the sky is still bright as the days linger longer, we lay down. A few books between us, cars and trucks jumbled in blankets. I lay down by him and he turns to his side, snoring. Asleep in no time.
We are in the rhythm.
He's our last, you see. No more babies.
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